Erema; Or, My Father's Sin

by R. D. Blackmore

  CHAPTER XVII

  HARD AND SOFT

  Before very long it was manifest enough that Mr. Gundry looked down uponMiss Sylvester with a large contempt. But while this raised my opinionof his judgment, it almost deprived me of a great relief--the relief ofsupposing that he wished his grandson to marry this Pennsylvania.For although her father, with his pigs and cattle, and a low sort ofhostelry which he kept, could settle "a good pile of dollars" uponher, and had kept her at the "learnedest ladies' college" even inSan Francisco till he himself trembled at her erudition, still it wasscarcely to be believed that a man of the Sawyer's strong common-senseand disregard of finery would ever accept for his grandchild a girl madeof affectation, vulgarity, and conceit. And one day, quite in the earlyspring, he was so much vexed with the fine lady's airs that he left nodoubt about his meaning.

  Miss Sylvester was very proud of the figure she made on horseback; andhaving been brought up, perhaps as a child, to ride after pigs and soon, she must have had fine opportunities of acquiring a graceful styleof horsemanship. And now she dashed through thick and thin in a mostcommanding manner, caring no more for a snow-drift than ladies do for ascraping of the road. No one with the least observation could doubt thatthis young woman was extremely anxious to attract Firm Gundry's notice;and therefore, on the day above spoken of, once more she rode over, withher poor father in waiting upon her as usual.

  Now I know very well how many faults I have, and to deny them has neverbeen my practice; but this is the honest and earnest truth, that nosmallness of mind, or narrowness of feeling, or want of large or finesentiments made me bolt my door when that girl was in the house. Isimply refused, after seeing her once, to have any thing more to say toher; by no means because of my birth and breeding (which are things thatcan be most easily waived when the difference is acknowledged), nor yeton account of my being brought up in the company of ladies, nor even byreason of any dislike which her bold brown eyes put into me. My causewas sufficient and just and wise. I felt myself here as a veryyoung girl, in safe and pure and honest hands, yet thrown on my owndiscretion, without any feminine guidance whatever. And I had learnedenough from the wise French sisters to know at a glance that MissSylvester was not a young woman who would do me good.

  Even Uncle Sam, who was full of thought and delicate care about me, sofar as a man can understand, and so far as his simple shrewdness went,in spite of all his hospitable ways and open universal welcome,though he said not a word (as on such a point he was quite right indoing)--even he, as I knew by his manner, was quite content with mydecision. But Firm, being young and in many ways stupid, made a littlegrievance of it. And, of course, Miss Sylvester made a great one.

  "Oh, I do declare, I am going away," through my open window I heard herexclaim in her sweetly affected tone, at the end of that long visit,"without even having the honor of saying a kind word to your youngvisitor. Do not wait for me, papa; I must pay my devoirs. Such adistinguished and travelled person can hardly be afflicted with mauvaisehonte. Why does she not rush to embrace me? All the French people do;and she is so French! Let me see her, for the sake of my accent."

  "We don't want no French here, ma'am," replied Uncle Sam, as Sylvesterrode off, "and the young lady wants no Doctor Hunt. Her health is asgood as your own, and you never catch no French actions from her. If shewanted to see you, she would 'a come down."

  "Oh, now, this is too barbarous! Colonel Gundry, you are the mosttyrannous man; in your own dominions an autocrat. Every body saysso, but I never would believe it. Oh, don't let me go away with thatimpression. And you do look so good-natured!"

  "And so I mean to look, Miss Penny, until you are out of sight."

  The voice of the Sawyer was more dry than that of his oldest andrustiest saw. The fashionable and highly finished girl had no idea whatto make of him; but gave her young horse a sharp cut, to show her figureas she reined him; and then galloping off, she kissed her tan gauntletwith crimson net-work down it, and left Uncle Sam to revolve hisrudeness, with the dash of the wet road scattered in the air.

  "I wouldn't 'a spoke to her so course," he said to Firm, who nowreturned from opening the gate and delivering his farewell, "if shewasn't herself so extra particular, gild me, and sky-blue my mouldingsfine. How my mother would 'a stared at the sight of such a gal! Keepfree of her, my lad, keep free of her. But no harm to put her on, tokeep our missy alive and awake, my boy."

  Immediately I withdrew from ear-shot, more deeply mortified than I cantell, and perhaps doing Firm an injustice by not waiting for his answer.I knew not then how lightly men will speak of such delicate subjects;and it set me more against all thoughts of Firm than a month'sreflection could have done. When I came to know more of the world, I sawthat I had been very foolish. At the time, however, I was firmly setin a strong resolve to do that which alone seemed right, or evenpossible--to quit with all speed a place which could no longer be suitedfor me.

  For several days I feared to say a single word about it, while equallyI condemned myself for having so little courage. But it was not as ifthere were any body to help me, or tell me what to do; sometimes I wasbold with a surety of right, and then again I shook with the fear ofbeing wrong. Because, through the whole of it, I felt how wonderfullywell I had been treated, and what a great debt I owed of kindness; andit seemed to be only a nasty little pride which made me so particular.And being so unable to settle for myself, I waited for something tosettle it.

  Something came, in a way which I had not by any means expected. I hadtold Suan Isco how glad I was that Firm had fixed his liking steadilyupon Miss Sylvester. If any woman on earth could be trusted not to saya thing again, that one was this good Indian. Not only because of herprovident habits, but also in right of the difficulty which encompassedher in our language. But she managed to get over both of these, and tolet Mr. Ephraim know, as cleverly as if she had lived in drawing-rooms,whatever I had said about him. She did it for the best; but it put himin a rage, which he came at once to have out with me.

  "And so, Miss Erema," he said, throwing down his hat upon the table ofthe little parlor, where I sat with an old book of Norman ballads, "Ihave your best wishes, then, have I, for a happy marriage with MissSylvester?"

  I was greatly surprised at the tone of his voice, while the flush on hischeeks and the flash of his eyes, and even his quick heavy tread, showedplainly that his mind was a little out of balance. He deserved it,however, and I could not grieve.

  "You have my best wishes," I replied, demurely, "for any state of lifeto which you may be called. You could scarcely expect any less of methan that."

  "How kind you are! But do you really wish that I should marry oldSylvester's girl?"

  Firm, as he asked this question, looked so bitterly reproachful (as ifhe were saying, "Do you wish to see me hanged?"), while his eyes took aform which reminded me so of the Sawyer in a furious puzzle, that it wasimpossible for me to answer as lightly as I meant to do.

  "No, I can not say, Firm, that I wish it at all; unless your heart isset on it--"

  "Don't you know, then, where my heart is set?" he asked me, in a deepvoice, coming nearer, and taking the ballad-book from my hands. "Whywill you feign not to know, Erema, who is the only one I can ever thinkof twice? Above me, I know, in every possible way--birth and educationand mind and appearance, and now far above me in money as well. But whatare all these things? Try to think if only you could like me. Likinggets over every thing, and without it nothing is any thing. Why doI like you so, Erema? Is it because of your birth, and teaching,and manners, and sweet looks, and all that, or even because of yourtroubles?"

  "How can I tell, Firm--how can I tell? Perhaps it is just because ofmyself. And why do you do it at all, Firm?"

  "Ah, why do I do it? How I wish I knew! Perhaps then I might cure it. Tobegin with, what is there, after all, so very wonderful about you?"

  "Oh, nothing, I should hope. Most surely nothing. It would grieve me tobe at all wonderful. That I leave for American ladies."


  "Now you don't understand me. I mean, of course, that you arewonderfully good and kind and clever; and your eyes, I am sure, and yourlips and smile, and all your other features--there is nothing about themthat can be called any thing else but wonderful."

  "Now, Firm, how exceedingly foolish you are! I did hope that you knewbetter."

  "Erema, I never shall know better. I never can swerve or change, if Ilive to be a hundred and fifty. You think me presumptuous, no doubt,from what you are brought up to. And you are so young that to seek tobind you, even if you loved me, would be an unmanly thing. But now youare old enough, and you know your own mind surely well enough, just tosay whether you feel as if you could ever love me as I love you."

  He turned away, as if he felt that he had no right to press me so, andblamed himself for selfishness; and I liked him better for doing thatthan for any thing he had done before. Yet I knew that I ought to speakclearly, and though my voice was full of tears, I tried.

  "Dear Firm," I said, as I took his hand and strove to look at himsteadily, "I like and admire you very much; and by-and-by--by-and-by, Imight, that is, if you did not hurry me. Of all the obstacles you havementioned, none is worth considering. I am nothing but a poor castaway,owing my life to Uncle Sam and you. But one thing there is which couldnever be got over, even if I felt as you feel toward me. Never canI think of little matters, or of turning my thoughts to--to any suchthings as you speak of, as long as a vile reproach and wicked imputationlies on me. And before even that, I have to think of my father, who gavehis life for me. Firm, I have been here too long delaying, and wastingmy time in trifles. I ought to have been in Europe long ago. If I am oldenough for what you talk of, I am old enough to do my duty. If I am oldenough for love, as it is called, I am old enough for hate. I have moreto do with hate than love, I think."

  "Erema," cried Firm, "what a puzzle you are! I never even dreamed thatyou could be so fierce. You are enough to frighten Uncle Sam himself."

  "If I frighten you, Firm, that is quite enough. You see now how vain itis to say another word."

  "I do not see any thing of the sort. Come back, and look at me quitecalmly."

  Being frightened at the way in which I had spoken, and having passed theprime of it, I obeyed him in a moment, and came up gently and let himlook at me to his liking. For little as I thought of such thingstill now, I seemed already to know more about them, or at least towonder--which is the stir of the curtain of knowledge. I did not sayany thing, but labored to think nothing and to look up with unconsciouseyes. But Firm put me out altogether by his warmth, and made me flutterlike a stupid little bird.

  "My darling," he said, smoothing back my hair with a kindness such as Icould not resent, and quieting me with his clear blue eyes, "you are notfit for the stormy life to which your high spirit is devoting you. Youhave not the hardness and bitterness of mind, the cold self-possessionand contempt of others, the power of dissembling and the iron will--ina word, the fundamental nastiness, without which you never could getthrough such a job. Why, you can not be contemptuous even to me!"

  "I should hope not. I should earn your contempt, if I could."

  "There, you are ready to cry at the thought. Erema, do not mistakeyourself. Remember that your father would never have wished it--wouldhave given his life ten thousand times over to prevent it. Why did hebring you to this remote, inaccessible part of the world except to saveyou from further thought of evil? He knew that we listen to no rumorshere, no social scandals, or malignant lies; but we value people as wefind them. He meant this to be a haven for you; and so it shall beif you will only rest; and you shall be the queen of it. Instead ofredressing his memory now, you would only distress his spirit. What doeshe care for the world's gossip now? But he does care for your happiness.I am not old enough to tell you things as I should like to tell them.I wish I could--how I wish I could! It would make all the difference tome."

  "It would make no difference, Firm, to me; because I should know it wasselfishness. Not selfishness of yours, I mean, for you never could beselfish; but the vilest selfishness of mine, the same as starved myfather. You can not see things as I see them, or else you would nottalk so. When you know that a thing is right, you do it. Can you tell meotherwise? If you did, I should despise you."

  "If you put it so, I can say no more. You will leave us forever, Erema?"

  "No, not forever. If the good God wills it, I will come back when mywork is done. Forgive me, dear Firm, and forget me."

  "There is nothing to forgive, Erema; but a great deal I never can hopeto forgot."